Heavenbound
by allissrose
Summary: Of redheads and rain and Jellal in towers and things. —Tower of Heaven and beyond.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Have a great Christmas Eve :)_

 _I'm sorry if I changed the summary half a billion times, too, that's just plain OCD._

 _I didn't get a kitten for Christmas, only reviews will still these tears (yes, I'm shamelessly guilt-tripping you here)._

* * *

Raids are almost a habit by now.

It's a familiar, comfortable pattern to them: the burning fields, screaming, the funny way some people are too scared to move and others shoot off like rabbits startled by gunfire. Not _all_ of them relish in it—some of the newer guards among them still squirm when someone gets caught in the flames—but the older ones, the crueler ones like it, they like the pain it causes.

And in the shadowy underworld they inhabit, you can't afford to turn up your nose at work; work brings in money, money buys them supplies, which fuels their labor, which fuels their sacrifice; sacrifice that is _vital_ to these men, incites a blood lust in them, makes them hungry, and most of all, makes them _desperate_. It's half desperation that drives them, and the other half is unarguably the loot. Bits of spare cash and jewels and stocks salvaged from the wreckage of the village fires; _fair compensation,_ in their minds, for their trouble.

Except this time. _Not_ this time.

This time their spoils consists of the following: ten sobbing children, a couple gold bracelets, fifty thousand jewel, and one blue-haired rugrat with a funny tattoo and a really bad attitude.

They consider just dumping the boy into the bay surrounding his village, but something holds them back. He's a little thing, this brat, scrawny and pale and barely eight years old, by the looks of it—the boss likes it when they run young, more energy to work—but there's strength in his bones, that much they can see, and a fire in his eyes. Defiance could be managed, with the right methods. Strength, however, _strength_ is what they need. With strength came endurance, and with endurance came hard work; with hard work, the tower would rise taller, and after that...

"The boy stays," the fat guard decides.

"Hey. My name isn't _boy,_ " says the boy. "It's—"

"Do you really think I care what your name is, _boy?_ " the fat one sneers. "Load him up now, before—heaven forbid—he starts _biting_ again." He shudders and strokes his left palm: there's a bandage there, fresh but already soaked in red.

The boy smiles, just a little.

There's traces of blood on his teeth.

Guards take him by the arms and shove him into a wooden trolley with the other kids, but not before he manages to kick one in the crotch and elbow the other one in the gut. If they cuff him hard for it, if they make _him_ bleed, the boy doesn't care. They bay is already tinged pink with the blood of his people—what happens to _him_ doesn't matter anymore.

He just likes making those bastards groan.

Finally a heavy clout to the head does him over, and his flailing stills. They can't stop him from making noise, though. It turns out he has a knack for innovative insults. His names for the fat guard range from _Bubble Belly_ to _Beefy Baby_ to _The Incredible Bulk_ _._ "Seriously, did you burn my village...or _swallow_ it?"

"Burned it to the ground, boy, and by golly if I didn't _enjoy_ it."

That is enough to make the child go silent. The fire in his eyes wavers.

But the man is not done.

"This raid wasn't even planned," the guard continued, smirk on his face. "You know that, _brat?_ We were already piled high with kiddies in here. We stopped for a second, to fix a cart wheel, and we saw this shitfaced little dump over here. Hardly even a town, not worth raiding. What could you give us, a couple stupid bumpkins, a cow? Do any of you shit-poor savages even have a proper bathroom in your shit-poor little shacks?"

He says nothing.

"You're not even _worth_ the trouble. But hell, the wheel would take an hour to fix, and me and my men, we got bored. Thought we'd have a little fun. There was room for an extra kiddie or two in the back, and we can always use a couple more brats, so I decided, why not? Life's short, kid. You got to live spontaneously."

The man's grip on the boy's arms tighten—a warning, as the child's fists clench, and his chin jerks and his eyes burn with a hatred like hot coals. An armored hand claps over the boy's mouth before he can reply.

"Hey...sir, shouldn't we stick him in with the others? It's getting awful late," one of the men ventures, nervously.

"Shut your mouth, Henwick, can't you see we're having a chat?"

"Y-yes sir."

"No one's even going to miss this place now that it's gone," the fat man tells the boy. "Oh, sure, I bet you think it's _special_ and _perfect_ and all that damn kiddie stuff, but it's a speck of crap on a world that's got enough crap in it already—honestly, we're doing the world a public service by burning this hellhole up."

"You _jerk_ —"

"There's not a decent woman for a hundred miles around this place," he continues. "A pity, that. I could've used a good woman. Wish your mama was still here, kid, and I could have gotten her down on her knees and given her a long, hard—heh, by the looks of you, you never even had a mama. A sissie, maybe? Huh, kid? You got any pretty little cousins or sissies that I could screw till I'm blue—"

"Shut up, shut up shut up you bastard _I'll kill you_ —"

"Hit him, Henwick," the fat guard yawns.

The man called Henwick casts a nervous glance at the blue-haired little boy, and then back at his superior, and he doesn't move.

"I SAID HIT HIM, HENWICK, NOW!" the fat man roars.

Henwick gulps. He walks towards the kid, who glares at him with large, green eyes. The left eye is bordered my some red kind of face mark, spanning the length of his left cheek. He's scowling.

He's _tiny._

"On Zeref's bones, you idiot, if you don't do it _now_ you're out of a job, you hear me?"

With a final look at the kid, the man nods, slowly; he raises one armored fist and with a quick, sharp swing smashes it into the side of the boy's head, hard as he dares.

The kid whimpers and sways, blood glowing in red rivers down the side of his cheek, mixing with his red tattoo until his whole face is a mess of reds and blues and green, angry eyes. He tries to kick at Henwick but he's too hurt, or too tired, or too sad, Henwick's not sure—and the kid falls. He hits the ground and lies with his bloody face pressed to the gravel, like roadkill. Like something they scraped off the broken wheel of their buggy.

The kid doesn't move.

"Did that teach you to keep your damn mouth shut, _boy?"_ the fat guy crows.

Henwick trembles, just a little—his gauntlet is stained from the boy's blood. He tries his best to discreetly wipe it off in the grass.

The kid says nothing.

"Knocked him out, did we? Huh. _Men!_ Load him up before he comes to."

"Should we...do something about that cut, sir? It's bleeding pretty bad."

The fat superior dismisses it. "No, no. It'll be fine. He'll be in working condition by the time we reach the R-system, and if he's not, well, you're just going to have to take another punishment, won't you, _boy?"_

Henwick takes the kid's feet, and a younger guard with a chipped tooth carefully lifts him by his head. They carry him to the wagon and drape his limp body inside, with the other children, who by this point have mostly cried themselves to sleep. The wagon doors slam shut, and it's dark as night within.

"Stupid brat," the fat man mutters.

He and the other guards climb back into their position at the driver's seat, and they set off. Guards whistle. Some of them play cards to pass the time.

.

.

.

Within the wagon, green eyes struggle to open; the child's lids are crusted over with blood, and blood is dried to the entire left side of his face. When he does manage to look about him it does no good—he can see no better with his eyes open than he can when they're closed. He blinks a few times to make sure he's really awake.

There's other bodies, stuffed in there with him. He can feel them. A girl is still crying in the corner, and the sound of her sobs settle like clammy fog onto the boy. He starts shaking.

"It's going to be okay," he says aloud to no one. "You hear me?"

No one responds, and the girl's sobs get louder.

"I said we're going to be fine! It's...it's like an adventure. We just need to beat the bad guys."

" _Bad guys?"_ a voice echoes, whisper-soft.

"Yeah," he says, gaining confidence. "We'll beat them. And we'll get out of here. You'll see."

"We will?"

"Yeah. We will. I _promise._ "

The voice doesn't respond.

"Hey—what's your name?"

"I—I don't wanna say—t-they told us not to talk and I don't want them to _hear me_ —"

"It's okay," he says quickly. "No, no, I understand."

"Thank you," the voice sniffs.

A beat. Then, hesitantly, "W-what's—what's _your_ name?"

He smiles into the darkness. "Shh. You're right, we should keep quiet."

"O-okay," the voice—it sounds like that of the crying girl—whispers back. "Yeah."

.

.

.

They pass what could have been hours, could have been _days,_ in complete silence.

Then at last, the buggy stops.

.

.

.

"My name," he says suddenly, "isn't _brat,_ and it isn't _boy_ —I'm Jellal."

"H-hi, Jellal," the crying girl says shyly.

"Hi, crying girl. Wow, it's so _dark_ in here. I can't even see my own hand in front of my face."

"M-me neither."

"So what's _your_ name?" he asks, curiously. "I can't just keep calling you _crying_ _girl_ in my head."

"Well, m-my name is—"

But before she can finish, light floods the wagon and he's pulled out into the sunshine, blinded by it's brightness—

—and by the time his vision clears, he's in a cell. Alone. The crying girl is probably in one of the cells near him, because he can faintly make out the sound of her sobs still through the thick stone walls.

 _It's too bad,_ Jellal thinks ruefully. _I didn't even get to see her face. I won't even know her if I see her later._

The cell is bare except for a straw pallet on the ground, filthy and covered with fleas, and it can barely be called a _bed,_ but Jellal is suddenly so tired.

He crawls in and sleep, blessedly, overtakes him.


	2. Chapter 2

Jellal wakes up feeling like he's in limbo, because he can't remember who he is or _where_ he is, and he keeps thinking he hears the voice of some sniffling girl in the background, and _why is it so dark in here?_

He reaches up to touch his head and feels the stickiness of blood matted into his hair.

 _Oh,_ he realizes.

Oh.

He remembers now.

Walls surround him on all sides: old, crumbly things, slick with damp and dripping with cobwebs, that hang proudly in the murky dark like they're fine lace drapes. The stone is a patchwork of gray overlain with purple specks— _purple specks_ —and for a second he thinks he might have inhaled a bad mushroom or something because he's fairly certain that walls aren't purple...

(but then again he's been having a nightmare for quite some time now, and maybe it's just another part of a bizarre dreamworld where men burnt farms and people in armor punched kids like him in the head and where his village, which he _knows_ has to be whole and peaceful, just like it always is, is a mess of charred buildings and bodies cooked medium rare and flames everywhere in a blazing inferno—maybe that dreamworld had purple walls, too.

Made just as much sense as anything else.)

Jellal pinches himself to make sure he's really awake. The walls are still purple.

He _hates_ purple. And whatever furry purple thing is covering the walls, it gives off an acrid stench—old rot and sulfur and something like pond scum—and Jellal groans when he realizes the scent has diffused into his hair and skin, and now he smells like...well, if smells could kill, he fears for the other inhabitants of—

—of _where?_ Where exactly _is_ he?

The door of his cell is closed, and the knob is too high for him to reach, but Jellal isn't about to give up that easy. He scrabbles up the wall (trying to choke away the spiderwebs that cling to his mouth and nose) like a monkey and makes a flying leap for the door handle.

He falls. Dusts himself off, and tries again.

Well, okay. It doesn't work the second time either. But part of being a ninja is _persistence._

The third time he tries, he cuts his knees up pretty badly. Jellal figures by the time he gets out of this stupid cell he'll be black and blue and red all over.

.

.

.

"That's never going work, but I guess you get points for effort," a voice says, wryly.

Surprised, he glances up from the muck of the cell floor to see the door wide open, and a man standing in the doorway, smiling at him.

 _Pfft._ Whatever. It's clearly Jellal's advanced ninja moves that opened the impossibly high door, and not this old coot in a bandanna, with his eyebrows like antannae—and Jellal certainly does _not_ think that insect eyebrows are totally awesome—because no one, and he means _no one,_ can beat Jellal's ninja skills...okay?

And he is _not_ scared that this old man might be another Henwick with metal gloves, or another fat guy in armor wearing rings on his fingers that he'd stolen from the corpses of Jellal's friends, and who talked about screwing mommies and sisters and cousins and how he _burned it to the ground, and by golly, he enjoyed it, he_ enjoyed _it, and he'd do it again, wouldn't he? Hadn't he?_

 _Because his men had just wanted to have a little fun. If your mommy was still here, I'd get her down on her knees and give her a long, hard_ — _but you don't have a mommy, do you?_

 _Do you, brat? Do you, boy?_

He doesn't have anything now.

.

.

.

The old man picks up Jellal by the shoulders and brushes him off with a cloth. His eyes are dark like moonstones in his wrinkly face: a face that doesn't look cruel, but it's not particularly kind, either. He's not wearing any armor, and is dressed in shredded white rags that hang off his skeletal frame. Like rotten fruit, he's shriveled and stinky and brown.

"You're not one of those guard men, right?" Jellal demands.

The old man shakes his head and his lips twist into a tight grin.

"Then who are you?"

The man blinks a little, bleary. His eyes gaze off into space like there are thousands of worlds behind Jellal's head, endless, fascinating worlds, and the man's the only person who can see them—it makes Jellal itch, for some reason, and feel vaguely irritated; _he_ wants to see hidden worlds, too.

"Are you the one they call Jellal?" the man asks.

"Uh—yes?"

He nods to himself. "Hmm." A pause.

"..."

Blinking slowly, like a cat, the man releases Jellal's shoulders and yawns, scratching his head. He has interesting hair—like right after a volcano erupts, the way ashfalls of white pour down like thick fog down the mountain, and it coats the whole thing in a cloudy haze—his hair looks like that, like falling ash, except maybe even whiter. Jellal had never seen such white hair.

Silence, and then, "Are you hungry, b—"

" _Don't call me boy,_ " Jellal says quickly.

The man's eyes widen, but he nods, and amends, "Are you hungry...Jellal?"

Jellal nods.

"They are handing out rations in the main hall. It will not be very much food, but everything helps, yes?" The man with the white hair smiles. "It is the happiest time in this place. When we eat food together. Come. We will meet the other children, and you may eat, and you may ask questions." He holds out a hand.

Jellal doesn't hesitate in taking it.

"I have a lot of questions," he tells the old man.

"And I don't have as many answers as I once thought I did," the man replies. "But I suppose we'll work something out, hmm? Come now. We might be too late already."

Jellal cringes. "Do...do they punish you if you're late?"

 _He'll just have to suffer another punishment, won't you, boy?_

But the man only laughs. "No, Jellal, no punishment—not yet, at least. I've forgotten what it's like to first arrive, it seems. It's been many years." He shakes his head. "The worst that can happen is that they'll be out of bread by the time we arrive, and in that case...well, there's no reason you can't have mine, then."

"B-but I can't eat your food, sir! Not when you're so old!"

"True, I am very old," he agrees. "And you, Jellal, you are very young. You may call me Grandpa, if you like."

"Just Grandpa? Don't you have another name?"

His hands fly, by some instinct, behind him, where a symbol glows red on his old, scarred back; and he touches it with a gentle hand, almost like he's cradling it. "Yes. I _do_ have another name, don't I? It's been many years since I've spoken it." Another pause, as the man breathes in, deeply. The air smells faintly of baking bread. "They called me Rob, many years ago. In another life."

"Grandpa Rob." Jellal grins. "It's a nice name."

Grandpa Rob smiles back, revealing teeth as rotten and brown as his the rest of him. "Thank you, Jellal."

And they go, together, to take the first steps into a dark and terrifying new life.

* * *

 ** _AN: This chapter's like mucus and you guys are my tissue...it's messy and bad but I'm just going to snot it all over you and make it your problem :)_**

 _ **Reviews are treasured. This fic's going to be loooong, heads up.**_


	3. Chapter 3

Breakfast is not all that Jellal hoped.

The fat guy must have spread rumors about him or something, or maybe all guards just have a nasty temper, but whatever the reason he's kicked in the shins about five times before they even reach the main hall: a giant bowl of gray stone with a floor dusted in sand, bare of any furniture, but so packed with people they have to pick their way through the bodies on tiptoe to squeeze in the last niche of free space. Even then there's an elbow stabbing Jellal in the ribs, and someone thinks it's okay to balance their bread on top of the boy's head like he's a table. He gets crumbs all over his hair.

"...Is it always like this?" he asks Rob, but the room roars with noise and the old man's gone deaf with age, so Jellal just gives up on asking questions.

Rob just laughs, and signals to an indistinguishable figure who brings them each a crust of bread— _crust_ being the key word here. Jellal wonders if it'll disintegrate if he tries to hold it too firmly, so he just bats it from hand to hand, trying to keep it from crumbling. His stomach groans.

"Eat, Jellal!" Grandpa Rob shouts above the din.

"But—"

"I recommend that you eat as much as possible as quickly as possible. Generally, most of us are civil towards one another, but some of the hungrier kids might..."

"Might _what?"_ Jellal shouts back. It's no use—he can't hear himself _think_ , much less talk.

The bread begins to shake alarmingly, so he decides the only thing to do now is to frantically stuff it in his mouth before it disappears on him. He _just_ barely makes it. It tastes kind of like a mix of flour and dirt, and he really hopes he's mistaken, but _is something crawling in his mouth?_

"Yum," he tells Grandpa, giving the old man a thumbs up.

Grandpa Rob smiles.

And then the guards walk in—and the roar softens to the hiss of whispers, which then gives to the click of hard boots, a slam of a spear (and the sickening _crunch_ of bone, a cry of pain); a man in a gold mask cleans the blood off his spearpoint with his spit, and steps on the bread of a girl barely four years old—then silence. Thousands of people, starved to the point of madness, put down their food and look up.

"This," the man in the mask says, "is an orientation. Welcome, one and all, to life in the R-system." His eyes, through the holes in his mask, crinkle with kindness, like he's a kind babysitter or a clown at a kid's birthday party. "Rest assured, if you don't die, then I hope you enjoy your stay here."

His spear, from point to shaft, is a dull and faded red—and _is it possible,_ Jellal wonders, _to spill so much blood that you can't even clean it off anymore? How many bodies were impaled on the end of that thing to stain it so red?_

The man with the mask flips the spear in the air and catches it with a bow. "Ah, this? This is Lightning. We're old friends. Would someone like to volunteer so that I can show what Lightning can do?"

No one makes a sound.

"Come on," he pouts. "You new workers are no fun. No one?" He waits for a second, and then, "Fine. I guess I'll have the honor of choosing my _own_ volunteers. How about...aha! You look like you need some love, don't you, little kitten?"

A small, whiskered little girl in the back of the room goes white and lets out a soft, " _Meow?"_

She's propelled forward by the crowd—which ebbs back and forth, like waves, pushing the girl and receding, pushing and receding—and they tie back her hands and get her down on her knees, like a human sacrifice.

The spear hums. Electricity zaps down the length of it's bloodstained shaft.

The girl is going to die.

.

.

.

Jellal will _not_ let this girl die.

She can't be more than seven years old. Her smile is gap-toothed. She only comes up to about his shoulder. She looks exactly like a kitten, down to the fluffy hair and the button nose.

She will not die. No one else is going to die anymore.

Steeling himself for a fight, he prepares to run at the masked man and knock that bloody spear out of his hands (and yes, he knows that the man can pick the spear back up, and _no,_ Jellal has not thought about what he's going to do next). _Magic_ powered the lightning in that spear, but Jellal didn't have magic; he didn't have anything except a conviction that _this girl cannot die,_ and that's enough for him. So he gets ready to charge.

He charges exactly two feet before Rob grabs him by the scruff of the neck and hauls his scrawny butt back into the crowd.

"Are you mad?" The old man's kind expression turns deadly with rage. "Do you _want_ to die?"

"Lemme go! He's going to _kill_ her!" Jellal whisper-shouts back.

"And what do think you can do about it? Do you think that the Head Official is the only guard with an electrified spear? What about the other twelve men behind him, hmm? If you save that girl, you will provoke them into openly attacking. And then there will be a _massacre."_

 _"_ I—I can do something—"

"There is nothing you or me can do. Nothing any of us can do. She has been chosen."

"But Grandpa, look at her, she's going to die without any help!"

"She will not _die,"_ Rob says. "That is not their aim. They do not intentionally kill off their slaves—yes, they are not very nurturing, I'll admit, but for all their cruelty the Officials are not stupid enough to eliminate their work-force, _especially_ the children. They need the children most of all."

"She's...going to live?"

"Yes. Perhaps."

" _Perhaps?_ What do you mean, _perhaps?_ So the fact that there's only a _possibility_ of certain death makes this all okay?" He struggles even harder to free himself from Grandpa Rob's grip, but for all his old age, the man holds steadfastly onto Jellal, and his hold only tightens. "Lemme go right now, Grandpa, I _can't_ let someone die or get hurt again—"

"And _I_ can't let you get hurt." Rob sighs. "If I put you down, do you promise not to do anything reckless?"

He nods.

"Fine, then. But don't think I can't catch you again. I may be old, but I'm determined, too." He deposits Jellal gently onto the cavern floor.

"You said that there would be no punishments today. That the worst that can happen is we run out of bread. Did you _lie_ to me?"

"I did not," Rob says, a gentle tone to his voice now. "I'm sorry. I truly did not know that it was going to be like this. Things are...changing now. More child slaves being brought in, less food. More punishments, targeting the small and weak, weeding them out. Longer hours. They're anxious to get the R-system completed quickly."

Jellal glances at the girl and the masked man, who is still toying with her, scratching her under the chin and calling her _kitty._ "Here, kitty kitty, do you want to play with Lightning?" The girl is shaking like she's freezing cold, cat-like eyes round and wide, and her _meows_ decrescendo with each threat, until Jellal realizes she's not meowing anymore—she's whimpering. She's scared.

"Is there really nothing we can do?" he murmurs softly.

"Not now," Rob replies. "If we can get to her quickly enough, then I might be able to treat the girl. I know some basic herbal remedies that can be found around the R-system. It might not be much, but it should be enough to keep her alive."

Jellal cringes. "And...if it isn't?"

"Then she's dead," Grandpa Rob says flatly.

"That's it?"

"That's it. She might die the instant she's electrocuted. Unlikely, but with someone so small and frail, possible. If I don't treat her within a single minute of her punishment, her heart might fail, and at that point...it's the end for that poor child. She'll be gone."

"A single minute," Jellal repeats.

"Yes. A minute is all she has."

The lightning racing up and down the length of the spear crackles, and the masked man grins. "Guess it's time now, pretty kitty. You ready?"

"Please don't hurt me," the little girl squeaks. Her eyes close.

Just like that, Jellal forgets everything Grandpa Rob warned him of (spears, deaths, a massacre, to _hell_ with it) and he runs as fast as he can towards the man with the battle cry of, "LET HER GO!" but his timing is off by a split second, a _fraction_ of a second, even, because the instant he reaches the girl and grabs her arms, her body ignites yellow and she starts screaming—and screaming—and _screaming screaming screaming..._

 _And Jellal is screaming, too..._

The man's mask is gone now, and he smirks at Jellal before vanishing into a cloud of black smoke, taking his guards with him.

"Milliana!" someone cries, and everything goes black.

.

.

.

He feels like someone's boiled him in acid and then dropped a piano on him. And then hit him with a train and whacked him with a hammer for good measure. He feels like death. He feels like he's been tortured. He feels like _hell._

"You _should_ feel like a fool," a voice snaps. Does he know that voice? He probably does, but everything is so hazy, he can't even remember his name...

.

.

.

"Is he going to be okay?" a voice asks, very softly. It's a different voice—a girl's voice. And this one he's sure he knows.

 _Crying girl,_ he thinks.

"Yes, Erza, don't worry. He'll be fine. A bit achy in the head for a few days—and though I don't like seeing him hurt, I can't say he wasn't asking for it—but fine nonetheless."

"And Melly? Is she going to be okay?"

"Milliana suffered quite a shock, but she's not badly hurt. In fact, she didn't even take the full brunt of the blow. I think when Jellal grabbed her he must have absorbed some of the electricity in his own body, or shielded her, or along those lines—otherwise the injuries she sustained could well have been fatal."

"He was so brave," the crying girl—Erza, was it?—says in a hushed whisper.

"He is a brave boy," the other voice, which he identifies as Rob's, admits. "Addled in the brains without a doubt, pulling a stunt like that, but it does take more courage than I believed _anyone_ could possess. He...reminds me of some old friends of mine, a long time ago."

Determined to get up, Jellal struggles to open his eyes; he catches a flash of bright red for a single second before they slide shut, like they are made of stone. "Grandpa Rob..." he croaks.

"Ah, you're finally revived. Shh. It's night-time now. Just go to sleep."

"But the cat girl—"

"—is fine," finishes Erza. Her voice is quiet as ever. Jellal wonders if she's ever shouted in her life. "You saved her. _Thank you."_

"I'm—glad that...you're both okay," he manages. "You're...that girl from the cart...aren't you?"

"You don't look so good," she frets. "Why don't you get some rest?" A gentle hand touches his forehead, and he sighs with equal parts contentment and exhaustion. "I...um, we can talk when you wake up, okay?"

"Okay." He yawns. "Hmm. G'night, Erza."

"'Night," she whispers back.

They both fall asleep at the same time.

.

.

.

 _Boing, boing, boing._

He wakes up to the cat girl bouncing up and down on his chest, squealing, "He's awake! _Mrow!"_

"...Huh?" Jellal says.

"Jeez, Melly, I told you to wake the guy, not _jump_ on him," comes another voice. It comes from a boy that's taller than Jellal, with fair skin and dark eyes like most of the prisoners there. His head is oddly square-shaped.

"And you're here, too, Wally!" the cat girl squeals.

"Hey, is that kid with the blue hair up yet?" says yet _another_ unidentifiable voice. Jellal is starting to get a little fed up with strangers peeking in on him when he's trying to sleep. It's another kid, tan and dark like Wally—but his head seems a normal enough oval-ish shape. _Do I have a funny-shaped head?_ Jellal wonders, for the first time.

"Simon," Wally greets. "Yep, he's up."

"Simon! You're—"

"Yes, Melly, I'm here, and that's very exciting." His face softens. "Hey, I'm really glad to see that you're okay. Yesterday must've been really scary for you."

Milliana's chipper mood doesn't wane the slightest bit. "Yeah, but Jelly Belly saved me because he's the best kitty _ever._ He's an even better kitty than you, Wally!"

Wally shrugs. "Hey, if you want to go through the torture that's being Melly's cat, then you're welcome to it. Honestly, I'd actually appreciate it. Any more of carrying her around and my back is going to give out."

Jellal blinks, still groggy. "Wait a second... _Jelly Belly?_ Um... _kitty?"_

Simon sighs. "Stuck being her cat, huh? I feel bad for you. But thank you. You know, for saving Melly. I owe you one for keeping her safe." He sticks out a hand. "I'm Simon Mikazuchi."

"Jellal Fernandes." They shake hands.

"Hey, wait a second, where's Erza?" Simon asks suddenly, looking around.

"Erza?" He likes that name a lot, for some reason—it sounds pretty when he says it. "She was here when I fell asleep. Grandpa Rob isn't here either. Maybe they went somewhere together." He struggles to his feet. "You want to go find them?"

"Yeah. Okay. You coming, Wally?"

"I'm going where Jelly Belly the kitty is going!" Milliana asserts.

Wally nods. "Okay, sure. If Melly's going, then I'll come. I don't even know who Erza is, though."

"I know Erza, and Shou is probably with her—they were both put in the same cell as me. Grandpa Rob—is that the guy who healed you and Melly?"

Jellal nods.

"I should thank him, too. Let's go." They walk out together, with Milliana still bouncing up and down and squealing, "Kitty!" every time she spots Jellal. He sighs.

He's not picky about nicknames, truly—

.

.

.

—but if he were allowed any input on the matter (which of course he isn't) _Jelly Belly..._ would not be his first choice.

He considers telling Melly that, but she almost died, and she loves cats so much—he just doesn't have the heart.

.

.

* * *

 _AN: Hmm. Reviews greatly appreciated._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I weirdly love writing this fic, so be nice to it, okay?

* * *

Jellal's theory is this:

When a crowd of scared people are trapped under two thousand pounds of stone , one of two things happen—total anarchy; or a sweaty, grim kind of unity that you can't see, only smell. Within two weeks of meeting his new prison-mates, he knows exactly which one it is going to be.

They drive each other _nuts._

Every morning a new argument; every night a half-hearted jab before they collapse into their beds, too tired to be offended. Melly calls Sho a crybaby, and Shou burts into tears. Wally curses the cruelty of their eleven hour shifts and Simon hisses at him to "shut up, _idiot_ —do you want them to _kill_ us?" and an all-out _war_ breaks out as Wally demands, "What, now I'm _stupid_ just because my village didn't have a fancy school like yours? Huh? So our lame potato fields aren't good enough for _elites_ like you, is that it?"

Rob just sits, thoughtfully, and he lets chaos reign. He's utterly useless.

Jellal's puzzled. If they all hate each other so much, why didn't they just...split apart? Why did he wake up every morning with Melly bouncing on his chest, Shou sobbing in a corner, and Simon and Wally going at each other's throats?

Why _his_ cell every morning?

He asks Grandpa Rob about it, but the only answer he gets is a wistful smile, and a sigh of: "Oh, the power of kin. Leadership is a burdensome thing."

And Jellal's more bewildered than ever before.

.

.

.

It's only on his work shift that he understands, in increments, what might be happening to them.

He's assigned to one of the easier tasks that morning: chipping away at the stone with a pickaxe. Sweat still streams down his face and matts into his damp blue hair, and his back throbs with each swing; but it's not towing bricks this time, and he's learned, quickly, to recognize and appreciate the smallest of blessings. He's taken the advice of Grandpa Rob by finding a rhythm to the work, and hefts his axe in time with the creak of loading carts, the crumbling of stone below. It makes it easier to keep going.

Each rock he smashes to powder he imagines is the fat guy's face.

Six hours in, break arrives, so he drops his axe and melts down to the ground, a heap of tired boy. He picks off pieces of the weird purple moss and pelts them at the pink dragon-looking monsters— _salamanders,_ Rob had called them: _a_ _draconic species who can't fly but retain their fire-breathing abilities; beasts used as weapons by the Order Enforcement Officials._ Whatever that means.

The monster growls; twin columns of flame slip from his nostrils.

"Stuff it, pinkie," Jellal snaps at it.

The salamander's jaws gape open and expose teeth as long Jellal's arm.

Jellal just rolls his eyes a he tosses a handful of stinky moss into the thing's mouth, and he smiles when it belches bad-smelling flames.

"Serves you right." Jellal looks at the beast...the beast glares back. "You look like you want to eat me pretty bad. Shame you're chained up, pinkie." He feels completely remorseless about torturing these monsters—he's seen the things they do. A man's leg was bitten clean off and _swallowed_ by a salamander. The man survived, with Grandpa Rob's help,

but the Officials ran him through with a lightning spear and killed him—after all, a handicap was just a hindrance to them, and hindrances must be eradicated.

No matter how tired Jellal is, a night doesn't pass without that man's screams echoing in his ears.

 _You're thinking again. Stop it._ Jellal turns away from the pink beast and crams a piece of bread in his mouth—saved from breakfast—just to give him something to do. It still tastes like dust...but he's used to it now. He folds his skinny arms across his chest and leans against the wall, eyes closed.

Twenty minutes of respite to every six hours, yet nine gone so _soon_. He'll take however much rest he can get.

He feels someone sit down next to him, but his eyes don't open.

"...Jellal? Are...are you okay?"

"Are _you_ okay?"

"Um."

He feels a smile spreading across his face. "Um what?"

"...Um..."

"Yeah. I'm okay." One eye cracks open. "I _knew_ it was you."

Erza blinks a little. "You did?"

"Yeah," Jellal says, grinning. "It's your hair. Even with my eyes closed it glows in the dark."

"Oh...I know what you mean. It was always a really weird color—"

"I like it," he interrupts. He reaches out a hand to poke at a red strand. "It's pretty."

She blushes a little. "So that's why you call me—"

"Scarlet? Seemed like it would fit." He squints. "Wait, why? Does it bother you?"

"No! I mean, I like it too." Erza shifts a little closer. "Hey, Jellal? Why were you throwing moss at that pink thing?"

"Because it looked like it wanted a snack."

"Why'd it start burping?"

"I dunno. Allergies maybe?"

Erza makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a hiccup and a giggle.

He glances at her. "What's so funny?"

She shakes her head and chokes out, "It's just, um, the thing's face—when it started burping...it looked like it wanted to kill you."

Jellal grins at her, and then he quickly closes his mouth because he figures there's probably chips of stone in his teeth, and that's just _gross._ Not that he _cares_ about Erza seeing that, or whatever, just...um... _right. Thinking. Gotta stop doing that, okay?_ Quickly he rubs his hands over his eyes to clear the dust, because he can barely see her in the darkness. "Yeah," he tells her. "Maybe it was. But I'd like to see that fat Pinkie _try!"_

Erza laughs at him again, face open, gentle. "You're always picking fights with fat things."

"Hey!" he says indignantly, "ever wonder why the the _fat things_ pick fights with _me?"_ Something in him tightens, even though he really _was_ joking: a clench of fists, muscle memory from trying to swing punches at towering guards—but missing. Every time, he's always missing. He flicks more moss at Pinkie just because at least he can't miss _that._ Jellal never expects Erza to take his question seriously.

"Because..." She stops, flushes, fiddles with her hair. "Jellal, has anyone ever told you...?"

Curiously, he tilts his head, and puts down the moss. "Yeah? Has anyone told me what?"

"I mean that you're _so_ —"

"Violent?" he suggests.

"— _brave,"_ Erza says. "You're _really_ brave! And I think...I think that's why you're always getting in trouble. And why you pick fights with stuff. You're always trying to...I dunno, fight back? _Do_ something, I guess..." She clears her throat with a smile. "Even if it's making giant lizards burp stinky fire! Anyway..." Erza looks so down that her hair hangs like red velvet curtains over her eyes. "Thank you for that. Because it makes me want to be brave, too."

Jellal's hands still over the moss still over the moss he's scraping and—brave? _Him?_ He turns to her with round, surprised eyes, his face like split rock and says, "But _Erza,_ I already think you're way brav—"

" _BREAK OVER, SQUEAKERS! BACK TO THE ROCKS, NOW!"_

He gives Erza a startled glance before his axe is thrusted sharply into his hands by a guard, who steers him back to the cave face for more swinging, sweating, thinking: _brave? Me? Really?_ Melly's face floats out of the stone, and she's bouncing like she always is. Sho who cries, but stops when Jellal comforts him. Simon and Wally picking fights, except they let _him_ break them up.

Erza, crying Erza, strong Erza, redheaded Erza, who wants to be brave: _brave like him?_ And he thinks back to Rob who said stuff like "kin" and "leadership", and the understanding falls on him all of a sudden like a rock dropping from the catwalk,

that these people are his _friends._ And they picked him to trust.

Which means that, somehow, impossibly, it is now his _duty,_ honor-struck by the sweat on their faces, that _he_ has to get them all out of this tower alive. If there's a way _anywhere,_ Jellal will find it; but he'll have to be careful, because the R-system is the place the brave go to get beaten down.


	5. Chapter 5

"I was young, too," Rob says, "once upon a time."

"Yeah? And how long ago was that—eons?"

He smiles. "Maybe. Certainly it feels like many years have passed. I've seen the young and strong cripple beneath stone, seen their bodies contort into shapes not meant for the human form, seen nights so cold that the deepest of wounds produced not a drop of blood. I've seen festivals of flowers...and light...and such sweet, sweet music, of harps and flutes and strings that sang like birds...and friends together—their laughter sounded like hope at the time. Joy in abundance."

The smile flickers as fluidly a shadow, cast from the light of the small, hot flames that lick the palms of his hands, which are gnarly and tough like old oak.

Jellal blinks with exhaustion, struggling to stay awake. "Hmm...festivals...what are those?"

"They're celebrations. For boys who manage to fall asleep," Grandpa Rob says, wryly.

"No, I'm fine...not tired..."

"Jellal, look around you."

He does. Melly is curled up, kitten-style, in the corner, with Wally sprawled out and snoring beside her. Simon leans against the wall with his eyes shut, Shou hanging off his left arm and sleeping like a log. The only ones still conscious, besides him and Rob, are the freaky kid with the snake, who he hears talking to his pet down the passageway, and the boy with the kohl-rimmed eyes who can't fall asleep without screaming, and spends all night rocking back in forth in a shaking little ball.

(Jellal did try to make friends with those guys, but the snake hissed at him and the kid with the nightmares bit him, so he decides to respect their space.)

"Hey, where'd everyone go?"

"Dreamland, Jellal—a place which you, too should visit for a few hours. You have another twelve grueling hours of work ahead of you."

"I know, I know," he sighs. "I just...don't think I'll be able to fall asleep." He looks down.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, not really. Just..." He casts a glance to the left of him, where there's a space noticeably, glaringly unoccupied by a certain redhead. "Nothing. Never mind."

"Ah." Rob nods in a knowing way that makes Jellal a little cranky. "Of course—I should have known."

"Should have known what?"

"Oh, the ways of youth, I remember them fondly. Ha. Well, that's quite sweet of you."

"I don't even know what you're talking about!"

"Erza isn't here tonight."

"Oh...really? Yeah, well, hey. That's odd." He looks around in a terrible imitation of surprise that makes Grandpa Rob roll his eyes.

"Don't pretend you didn't notice. What happened? Lover's spat?"

"It's stupid. We got into this fight about—hey, wait, no! Lover's... _what?"_

"It's ordinary for even the most devoted of couples to fight every once in awhile. I'm sure you two will make up soon enough," Rob says, dark eyes twinkling. The fire he holds in his hands dances, and to Jellal it looks like it's laughing at him. He glares at the old man with the venom of a sleepy teddy bear.

"I don't even _like_ Erza! _Simon_ likes her. He told me so, and then I told Erza that—" Jellal stops when Simon mutters something in his sleep. He continues in a whisper, " _I told Erza that, and she got all mad at me..."_

Shaking, quiet, Rob's laughter bounces soft as firelight around the room, bright like those invisible stars only the old man could see. Jellal's eyelids flutter once, twice, then drops heavily like his heart does. He's tired. It's been a long day, month, the only way he marks the passing days is to see Erza's hair grow and grow and grow...

"Grandpa?" he asks. "Can you tell me more about festivals and light and stuff before I sleep?"

 _"Light like stars trapped in lamps. They threw flower petals. Plates never emptied. Strings were plucked, tiny strings, a few hairs thick, and suddenly everyone was singing—"_

(He's asleep before he can hear the music.)


End file.
